


Glass Capsule

by pearypie



Series: the swinging sixties [3]
Category: Kuroshitsuji | Black Butler
Genre: Alternate Universe, Lust, M/M, Memory, Remembrance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-11-06
Updated: 2016-11-06
Packaged: 2018-08-29 08:07:45
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 792
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8481922
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/pearypie/pseuds/pearypie
Summary: Sequel to 'Chelsea Hotel No. 2'AU: It’s 1978. October. Sid’s just stabbed Nancy. (Sebastian's remembrance of things past.)





	

may i move said he  
is it love said she)  
if you're willing said he  
(but you're killing said she

\- e.e. cummings

* * *

 

It’s 1978 and Sid’s just killed Nancy. Jack’s been dead twelve solid years and _fuck,_ does he miss that bastard. There’s a bit of an irony to this whole thing; he was in Los Angeles at the time of Sharon’s murder and Manson’s Helter Skelter but he misses _this._ He hasn’t been in New York since 1972, having left on the next plane to Paris after Edie’s funeral.

Twenty eight. She was _twenty_ fucking _eight_ —even Marilyn Monroe lived until her mid-thirties.

But Edie died.

_Twenty fucking eight years old._

He came to Paris in January of ’72 and he was indifferent. But now Sid’s killed Nancy and that skinny orange haired singer—the English one with the look that he’d just been flung down from the cosmos—is on a tour of Europe and Sebastian’s actually seen him in concert and _shit._ He’s _good._

It was really just an excuse to go to Oslo after that shit show meeting with Bobby Jack Daniels but between the picturesque platitude of Norway and the apathetic realization he was now 46, Sebastian didn’t mind standing in a midst of cigarette smoke and strong bass beats, sound and vision blurring as colors came together in a strange melange of pointless meaning. It was as if Nietzsche and Sartre had learned how to finger paint and were slashing globules of orange, blue, and gold against the dark, midnight sky.

The experience was profoundly intriguing but Sebastian was rather disappointed with the climax—there was nothing _there._ Nothing to inspire, nothing to embody.

_They’re Irish for Christ’s sake, not Iranian. I can’t understand why every vacation is like the holy communion done over again._

With a jolt, Sebastian opens his eyes.

It’s been years since he’s thought back to _that._

What was the boy’s name? Phantomhive? That was it. _Phantomhive._

_My mother’s niece to the Kennedy’s and as a result, I’ve had to suffer through summer in the Hamptons and Christmas overseas._

Ciel Phantomhive.

That sapphire eyed brat who Sebastian had been keen on fucking because he was as elusive as water and Sebastian had been looking forward to getting his heart broken.

 

“I’ll break your heart you know.” He warned.

Sebastian smiled. “Well aren’t you arrogant.” _To think you could affect me._

The boy shrugged. “I’ve been around and seen the damage. Some grew bald, some committed suicide, and some settled for second best.”

“How painful.”

“It was like watching a slow and painful car crash.”

Sebastian forced the boy to meet his eyes. “I want to fuck you.”

“I’ll break your heart.”

“Already broken.”

 

Sebastian lit a Marlboro. The darkness was all consuming until a small burning bit of amber appeared at the end of his cigarette. He exhaled and smoke materialized, saturating the darkness with a haze of remembrance.

 

“JFK. Foreign policy.”

Ciel was currently using Sebastian as a body pillow, head resting on the older man’s chest and a White Russian in his left hand. “Easy. He was a pragmatist. Khrushchev overplayed his hand and thought Kennedy would dance like a puppet on a string.”

“The Bay of Pigs gave him good reason.”

“Yes, but we elected a _Catholic,_ don’t you remember? Kennedy had the Pope while all Khrushchev had were nationalists.”

A wry smile appeared on Sebastian’s lips.

“Where were you when this went down?” The boy tilted his head back so Sebastian could admire the glass structure of his jaw and the unblemished magnolia white of his skin. “You weren’t in Florida were you?”

“No.”

“So where were you?”

“Away.”

“Fuck that.” Ciel pressed the cold glass of his drink against the older man’s chest.

Sebastian didn’t flinch and Ciel, ever oppressive, was displeased. Without so much as a word, he placed the concoction of vodka and chocolate on the windowsill above the bed before twisting back around and straddling the raven haired man’s hips, one slim, milk pale thigh on either side of Sebastian’s abdomen.

“You’re being evasive again.”

Sebastian arched a brow. “Am I?”

“Yes. You are.” He paused. “I _order_ you to tell me.”

“And if I don’t?”

Ciel rocked his hips forward and—with a hiss—he had his answer. “I can go slow.”

“I could kick you out.”

The boy smirked. “You wouldn’t.”

 

“Sochi.” He answered, breathless with the boy beneath him.

“What?” He moved but Sebastian refused, peering down at Ciel, still buried inside him.

“1962. I was in Sochi.”

A glimmer of triumph appeared in the boy’s eye but it was masked just as quickly with an expression of lustful impatience. “Move.” Said he.

 

It’s 1978. October.

Sid’s just stabbed Nancy.

**Author's Note:**

> \- Sid and Nancy: refers to punk-rock figurehead Sid Vicious (of the Sex Pistols) and his girlfriend/manager Nancy Spungen. On October 12, 1978 Vicious woke up in a drug induced stupor to find Nancy dead with a single stab wound to her abdomen. The knife used in the stabbing had been bought by Vicious himself because it resembled the 007 flip-knife given to Stiv Bators by Dee Dee Ramone. Vicious died four months later from a heroin overdose. 
> 
> \- “Jack’s been dead…” — refers to Jack Kerouac, a pillar in the Beat Generation community famous for his novels ‘On The Road’ and ‘Big Sur’. He died in 1969 from alcohol abuse. 
> 
> \- “Sharon’s murder and Manson’s Helter Skelter…” — references the murder of actress Sharon Tate on August 9, 1969 by Charles Manson and members of the Manson “Family”. At the time of her murder, Tate was nine months pregnant with her and director (and Holocaust survivor) Roman Polanski’s son. Tate begged to be allowed to live long enough to give birth (she was two weeks away from her due date) but these monsters killed her anyway, stabbing Tate sixteen times before leaving her for dead. 
> 
> \- “…after Edie’s funeral” — refers to the death of New York socialite, model, glamour girl and actress Edie Sedgwick. (Google her pic. She’s stunning.) 
> 
> \- “that skinny orange haired singer” — the rock legend himself, David Bowie. (Specifically, I’m referencing his 1978 Isolar II world tour where he promoted the albums ‘Low’ and ‘Heroes’.) Love Bowie. Had to reference him. 
> 
> \- “‘Move.’ Said he.” — a reference to E.E. Cummings erotic poem ‘May I Feel, Said He’. (Listen to the version read by Tom Hiddleston, it’s on YouTube and it’s absolutely wonderful.) 
> 
> A/N: Brief sequel of sorts to ‘Chelsea Hotel No. 2’. (Please read that one first, otherwise this will make very little sense lol.)


End file.
